Shelter
by absolutelycancerous
Summary: Because Maka grew up sheltered, and reality was a punch in her weapon's face.


Maka really has never seen discrimination; she's been going with her Papa to the academy since she was old enough to toddle on her own two feet, a place where sure, there's fighting, but she's never seen anyone truly, honestly hate one another. It's just not how the system works, and with the literal God of Death as your headmaster, it's probably not a good idea to go setting the example for punishment of such.

However, it's really not until a year or so into her partnership with Soul that she learns there was ever such a problem, with normal people looking in on their "particular" lives. She never knew anyone who cared (certainly not in Death City) about whether or not a student whipped into action with a burst of light and some kind of arm protruding in result—a blade, a gun, anything.

They're trying to get Maka's boot off her swollen, most likely broken ankle. They're sitting on a bench, in the middle of a city that, thank the heavens, predominantly speaks English—at least, their road signs are in English and the bits of conversation they hear from passers-by is in their native tongue.

"Don't pull, don't _**pull**_—_Soul, stop!"_

Maka's yelling and making a scene as Soul struggles with the straps on her boots; they're melted together (thank you, Kishin scum) and there's no way he's going to get the goddamn thing off with his hands without snapping her ankle totally in half and causing more damage than what's already done.

"This isn't gonna work," he tells her plainly, and Maka hiccups; she's pretty much cried out all her tears, but she's still in a tremendous amount of pain.

"Cut if off!" She blurts, and her eyes go all wide and hopeful as she hits his thigh with her hand, like the more she hits him the faster he'll agree. "I won't get mad, just cut my boot off and it'll—"

Soul's got his face all next to hers; she can even smell his cologne and the dirt that coats his jacket. His voice is low, almost frightening, when he growls, "We're in _public_."

Maka pauses. Remembers her leg feels like there's a steak being driven into it, and starts trembling and crying all over again because she was so excited. Soul can cut through anything, she knows so! It's a little more than disheartening when he sounds so against the idea.

"It _hurts_," she wails, wipes her eyes with her dirty gloves and smears dirt on her cheeks in the process. Makes Soul feel shitty on accident with her crying and watches him shifts nervous to help her get her leg into his lap.

He leans in again, looks at her, looks serious and grim and Maka legitimately halts in her wailing to stare right back at him.

"You can't be screaming like that if I do it."

She nods. He shakes his head, though.

"I mean it. Stuff your glove in your mouth—just, be _quiet_."

Maka nods again, feels embarrassed that he's had to tell her such, was she really crying that hard? Soul sighs, and she's confused when Soul tries to hide the glow of his transformation and the entirety of his red-black blade—does he think she's never seen it? Soul told her to stay quiet, so she decides not to speak up—

The first yank he gives in splitting the side of her boot makes her scream. Loudly. Enough to cause a scene this time.

"I _told_ _you_," he warns, his voice getting louder and more irritated with every word. He does not try to be gentle, and at first, it upsets Maka that her broken ankle is getting manhandled and risks being _sliced clean off. _

But then she notices the people that are beginning to surround them, and they are not like people back home in Death City.

They are angry, and they are cruel. One woman hits Soul with her handbag—it must not be heavy, because Soul doesn't jolt from the impact, but there's another woman from behind her screaming about how he's trying to cut the poor girl's foot off, he's going to _kill her_!

That causes a bigger commotion than before, and Maka, through her tears, asks Soul what they should do. She is interrupted by a man who moves to grab Soul by the shoulder, and actually manages a punch on her partner's face—he was only caught off-guard because of _her_!

"Stop it!" She screams, loudly, like it's _her_ dealing with the calls of "freak!" and "monster!" and "Satan spawn!" that the crowd spews in a sick sort of harmony. It's only hatred that brings them together, and also what has them screaming loudly when Soul socks the guy right back, right in the eye that has the man staggering back into the arms of his awaiting mob.

"You see! They don't know anything but violence!"

Maka raises her arms, tries to get the attention on herself and not Soul, who's rubbing at his cheek and trying to move his jaw properly.

"This is a big, _big_ misunderstanding!" She explains, but finds someone pulling at her hands and trying to help her up from her seat on the bench.

"Miss, are you alright? Come now, we have to get you away—"

"This is my _partner_! I'm not leaving him!"

The man attempting to help her up drops her to the seat. Raises his arm up to scream, "She's _with_ him, she's another one of those freaks!" and spits on her coat before turning around and walking away in total disgust. She imagines they look pretty awful, bloody and sweaty and filthy, but she can't imagine this is because of Soul.

A few more people spit at them, and a couple of the younger ones throw stones from the street, but Soul takes the brunt of most of it, slinging his meister over his shoulder in order to carry her away from the ugly name-calling and loogies being spat.

They have to go to the very edge of town to get to their hotel, where reservations have already been made and the man in the lobby that leads them to their room has a DWMA badge hanging from his pocket; there's a reason _he's_ so kind to them when he gets a doctor on the phone, and to their room for a check-up on Maka's foot. Birds of a feather, after all.

It's late when everything's squared away, Maka's foot bound as best as possible (which is very nice, she doesn't complain) and pills are popped in her mouth to numb the pain. A sprain, thank the lord, but bad enough to keep her from moving from the bed.

Soul's changing in the bathroom while Maka quietly flips through television channels, before she sits up and watches him brush his teeth at the sink. He doesn't look like a freak, or a monster, or any of the other things those people called him. She wonders why that happened—has he been here before?

Soul rinses his mouth and smirks at her through the mirror. "Can't keep your eyes off me, huh?"

Maka rolls her eyes, watches him turn off the lights and crawl into bed; he's modest and gives her lots of space to herself, though she doubts she'll be moving much, and she lays down and pulls him a little closer.

"What happened out there, I—"

"It happens, sometimes."

Maka gapes. "That sort of thing has _happened before_? To you?"

Soul shrugs, he is not **nearly** as upset about this as he should be. "Not always to me. To _everyone_. It happened to you, too, remember?"

"I've never seen that before."

Her scythe snorts, she can see his smile in the dark. "I'd guess, you're one of those… what is it?" Another snort. "_Death's Children_?"

"People aren't like that at home."

"They live around us every day, so they're used to it—it's scary for other people, don't you think?" Surprisingly, Soul seems much more level-headed about this than Maka, and it surprises her that he sounds so mature talking about something such as this. Then again, she remembers, Soul's a _weapon_, and he's got weapon friends, too; he's probably seen much more of this than her, since he didn't always live in Death City.

"You were helping me," Maka states, plainly. "They shouldn't have done what they did."

"I think people do stupid things when they're afraid."

Maka scoffs. "_**Spitting**_ on people you're afraid of doesn't do either party any good."

Soul laughs, quietly since it's late, but he still laughs and his chuckles shake the bed a little. Maka doesn't see the humor in this.

"Why are you so **okay** with that? You got, you got _punched_! In the _face_!"

Soul goes quiet. Sighs, like he doesn't know what the correct answer is, and tugs the blankets up to his chin.

"Think about weapons who don't know better, who haven't heard of the academy yet. They've probably got it much harder than we do. If taking a few punches and getting called some names is what _we_ get…" He shakes his head, pulls the covers up over his face. "I can't imagine what that'd be like. I don't want to."

Maka finds herself rubbing at his arm, frowns quietly to herself. She realizes how sheltered she'd been, and tells herself to make sure she thanks her father (in the most blaze way possible) that she is thankful for how well he's protected her.

"You're not any of those things."

Soul makes a noise from under the sheets. "You're a sap."

Maka smiles, isn't mad that he doesn't have any other words to say besides a sassy comeback, and falls asleep dreaming of broken chains and melting pots.


End file.
